The Boyfriend
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Sequel to The Girlfriend. John is sleeping with Sherlock and what does that even mean? Navigating friends, acquaintances, ex-girlfriends and French assassins may prove too much for their developing relationship. Fluffy, slashy, and very johnlocky.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Boyfriend

**Author:** MildredandBobbin

**Rating:** T for language and sexual scenes

**Disclaimer:** The BBC own this incarnation of Sherlock Holmes & co. Some ideas also pinched from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original stories

**Spoilers:** Everything so far

**Summary:** Sequel to The Girlfriend. John is sleeping with Sherlock and what does that even mean? Navigating friends, acquaintances, ex-girlfriends and French assassins may prove too much for their developing relationship. Fluffy, slashy, and very johnlocky.

**The Boyfriend**

Dust motes floated through the sunlight that was shafting into John's bedroom. It was the mid-morning after the morning after and he was very comfortably dozing next to a long, pale, rather beautiful man. Dark locks lay on the pillow and dark brows and lashes were contrasts against the pale angular face. Sherlock's eyes were closed, dozing as well, his sensual mouth slightly open and John could feel his warm breath on his shoulder. Sherlock lay on his stomach, one strong, slim arm was hooked around John's waist, one lean, muscled leg under his own. John studied the smooth, muscled back, followed the spine down into the dip of his lower back before it rose into a perfect curve, in fact the only curve on all of Sherlock's intriguing body.

John was sleepily considering what it would be like to bite Sherlock's left buttock when Sherlock's phone rang downstairs. Much to John's disappointment Sherlock rolled out of bed to answer it. After only a minute he was back in the bedroom.

"Hurry up, get dressed, we have a case!"

John groaned, saw the animation on Sherlock's face and gave in. "Right, all right, getting up."

He staggered off to the bathroom, not exactly hung over, but still feeling the effects of a night at the pub followed by great sex and tried to wake himself up with a brisk shower. In about fifteen minutes he was dressed and waiting by the door of the flat for Sherlock to pull on his coat, turn up his collar and sweep out the door.

"So who was that?" John asked as they left 221B. There were no paparazzi today. Sherlock had become old news at last.

"Lestrade, body down at the Thames." Sherlock hailed a cab.

"Ah." John chewed on his lip, considering. "Ah, Sherlock, when we see Lestrade, can we not tell- I mean-" He hadn't been on a police case since…well since Sherlock pretended to kill himself. He knew Sherlock had helped out on a couple of cases since he got back, and he was certain the policeman had noticed that he hadn't been there. He didn't want to compound the awkwardness of his return with an inappropriate announcement about his and Sherlock's new sexual status.

Sherlock shot him a look, dark brows drawn into a frown, figuring out what John was trying, rather badly, to say. "You don't want Lestrade to know we slept together? It's hardly something I intended to broadcast."

John shook his head. "Not sleeping together, obviously, but, uh," he frowned. What was there to tell? They hadn't really defined their relationship. He _assumed _they were together now but- "You know, that we've got a thing, or something…never mind."

"All right."

"I just haven't had time to process it myself."

"You're embarrassed?" Sherlock asked as the cab pulled up.

"No! No of course not. Just, I mean…it's personal." This was coming out badly. John climbed into the taxi after Sherlock.

"All right," said Sherlock again after settling himself into the seat and directing the driver.

John shot a look at Sherlock. He seemed all right but maybe…

Sherlock saw John looking at him dubiously. He sighed. "John, it's fine! You care about what people think, I don't, but I also don't really want to share my personal business with the whole of New Scotland Yard."

"It's not about being embarrassed about you."

"I know." He didn't look like he believed it.

"I mean I'd have stopped hanging around you long ago if that was the case."

"Thank you John." Not getting any better.

John coughed and looked away. "Anyway, what's this case about?"

* * *

John recognised Sally Donovan and Greg Lestrade when they arrived at the crime scene – it had been three years since he'd been on a case with Sherlock. Donovan seemed surprised to see John walk over with Sherlock.

"Kissed and made up, have you?" she asked.

"Yes," said Sherlock shortly, as he strode past. John fought back a wince and the urge to deny, he imagined Sally Donovan would assume it was just sarcasm anyway. He didn't have time for Sally Donovan, not at the funeral, not when he ran into her at Tescos and not here at a crime scene, not after that night at Baker Street when she arrested Sherlock.

"John!" said Lestrade. "Good to see you, helping this great plonker again, are you?"

John smiled weakly. "Yeah, what can I say, I must get off on it."

Lestrade laughed genially. "Well, see what you can make of this bloke."

And John stood back and watched Sherlock, the man he'd been in bed with only forty minutes before, be his brilliant self. He'd forgotten how impressive it was, the way Sherlock could pluck details out of apparently thin air. It was like the first time he'd seen the detective at work all over again, grandstanding, showing off his intelligence, locked into whatever deduction he was doing.

"Amazing," he said, and saw Sherlock glance up at him with a quick smile before returning to his job. Graceful and elegant, so ridiculously cool in his coat, with those gorgeous cheekbones, stupidly beautiful. John took a deep breath. Hot. Very. Hot. And since when was he tapping his foot waiting for Sherlock Holmes to hurry up with a case so they could go home and shag?

"Been a while then, John?" said Lestrade, and John blinked before he realised Lestrade was talking about his appreciative comment, not his dirty thoughts.

"Three bloody years."

"Tell me about it." He nodded over at his team. "This lot here never worked so hard in their lives."

And John had to admit everyone seemed a lot nicer to Sherlock. There'd been no name calling and Donovan and Anderson had stayed at a distance and let him work. Sherlock's name had been cleared well over two years ago, Lestrade and a special task force had completed re-investigating all the cases he'd helped on and found Sherlock innocent of any involvement. And then Mycroft, it must have been Mycroft, had released video footage of Sherlock and Moriarty on the roof- Moriarty's confession of sorts.

John had forced himself to watch it, watch Sherlock's last moments as he tricked Moriarty into admitting everything, as Moriarty told him why he had to die. It had torn his insides out to know that Sherlock had jumped for him, jumped to stop Moriarty's snipers. Tore at his heart to hear Sherlock speak his name in that beautiful voice he missed so much. And the media and public had turned again, as they did and suddenly Sherlock had been vindicated, a hero. John had looked at it as too little too late at the time, and it was at that point that he'd lost hope, because Sherlock hadn't come back, John had stopped hoping for that final miracle. He understood now, of course, that Sherlock had been hunting down Moriarty's accomplices, tying off as many loose ends a possible while they still thought he was dead. All the same, when Sherlock had finally returned, the delay had been another point in John's feelings of betrayal. Sherlock had explained it all and, rationally, John understood, but it hadn't stopped him feeling anger and hurt after the earth staggering news that Sherlock was alive had settled.

That had been a month ago. John thought about the events of the past week; about finally agreeing to go with Sherlock on that case in Hampstead, kissing Sherlock on Hampstead Heath, his difficult decision to leave Mary, to move back in with Sherlock, to try to kiss Sherlock, to let Sherlock seduce him.

"Good to see him back again," said Lestrade. "Must have been hard for you, finding out it was all, you know, fake. Fuck, I felt like shit when I thought he'd – well, can't imagine how you felt ."

"Pretty shit, yeah," said John, it was the understatement of the millennium. "Took a bit of getting used to when he came back."

"Oh, Molly Hooper told me you'd moved in with your girlfriend, Mary, wasn't it? How's that going?"

"Didn't work out," said John, shortly.

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean-"

"No, no," said John. "It's fine. I'm shagging Sherlock now, didn't you know?" He said it with a joking lilt, a nod towards Donovan and a grin, Lestrade laughed and John let him think it was a joke. Still, it felt surprisingly good to say it.

* * *

Sherlock solved the case in four point three minutes. He knew he was showing off for John, _delighted_ to hear John exclaim about his brilliance again, like he'd done when they'd first met. He'd missed that, having his own personal cheer squad, someone to show off for. He wiped his hands and stood up. He watched John talking to Lestrade for a moment, saw John's occasional glances over towards him. John, so good with people, so effortless in the way he won friends. John was joking about something with Lestrade but Sherlock could see a tightness in John's expression that reminded him a little too much of how things were before last night, with John still angry with him and confused about him. He hoped John wasn't beginning to regret what they'd done.

He started walking over to tell Lestrade the results of his investigation. John caught his eye, the tightness in his expression vanishing instantly and gave him a half smile. Sherlock felt a surge of relief; his John, his friend, now lover, the only person in the world who registered as more important than himself. A memory of the night before came to him unbidden, as memories of John were wont to do, John above him, pushing him back, down, wanting him. Sherlock had plans to see that expression again.

"Well, solved it yet Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

And Sherlock saw John's eyes light up in anticipation and he couldn't resist putting on a show.

* * *

John was impatient to get going but as they went back to the road where the police cars were parked, a taxi pulled up and an older lady got out. Lestrade walked over to greet her and then caught sight of Sherlock and John, beckoning them over.

"Boys, should introduce you to my Mum," Lestrade said. "Mum, these are the fellas I was telling you about, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Oh! You're that detective!" Mrs Lestrade said. "Gregory has told me so much about you! You're such a help to him and I'm so glad that nasty business with that Moriarty chap has been sorted out."

John could see the impatient response forming on Sherlock's lips before he was able to say it. He dug an elbow into Sherlock's ribs and moved forward.

"Mrs Lestrade," he said. "Lovely to meet you. You must be rather proud of Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The old lady beamed.

* * *

Sometime later they were finally in a cab heading back to Baker Street. John had insisted on nattering to that old woman for far longer than Sherlock deemed necessary for politeness's sake. Lestrade had offered them a lift back to Baker Street via his mother's nursing home but Sherlock couldn't bear another minute and refused. John had given him a look that indicated that he'd been rude but really, another thirty minutes in the car with Mrs Lestrade and Sherlock would show him rude.

They'd finally hailed down a cab and were on their way home. Home. With John. Sherlock felt an unaccustomed tightness in his chest, a glow emanating from deep inside him as if his nerve endings were vibrating, it was a good thought. It had been a lonely three years away and a terrifying month until John had finally come back to him in return. If keeping John meant sharing his emotions and showing him affection and satisfying his sexual needs then so be it. And surprisingly, those things turned out to be something Sherlock no longer wanted to do without. Something which perhaps he'd wanted all along.

John heard his phone beep and checked the new text message.

From Sherlock. He frowned and glanced at his friend who was staring out of the window.

_Homoerotic longing._

John blinked. He licked his bottom lip. "Nice description," he said.

"I thought so," said Sherlock.

"You..uh…feeling that now?"

"A bit," said Sherlock, not turning from the window. He slid his hand across the seat between them so it rested just touching John's leg.

John looked at Sherlock's profile for a moment before answering, "I might be a bit too, actually."

"Hm, good."

John watched bemused as Sherlock flicked open his phone with his other hand and sent another text. Sure enough it was for him.

_Lube?_

John felt his ears burn at the implications of that question. There were some things they hadn't explored yet. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and shifted a little in his seat. "Practical," he noted.

He heard Sherlock snort slightly with amusement. "Got any?"

John coughed, clearing his throat. "Got some," he said shortly. A 2-in-1 massage oil lubrication actually, bought when he was with Mary.

"Nearly home," said Sherlock.

* * *

Three long hours after Lestrade first called, Sherlock and John opened the door to 221B Baker Street.

"Upstairs," said Sherlock in a terse voice.

They took the steps two at a time, tearing open the door to their flat and slamming it behind them. They immediately shrugged out of their overcoats and then Sherlock threw himself at John, pulling at his jumper, stealing a quick kiss on the way.

"Been waiting for this all day," John said, pulling the offending item over his head and attacking the buttons on Sherlock's damnably tight shirt as Sherlock struggled out of his suit jacket.

"Fuck yes, if you hadn't insisted on being nice to Lestrade's mother we could have been home half an hour ago." Sherlock threw his jacket on the floor and snatched another kiss before starting work on John's belt buckle.

"If you had just told Lestrade who'd done it instead of prattling on proving how clever you we wouldn't have still been there when Lestrade's mum showed up." John finished up Sherlock's buttons just as Sherlock moved onto John's shirt.

"You always like being illuminated by my genius. I'm sure you'll eventually learn something."

John tugged at Sherlock's belt. "Normally I do, but today I would rather be illuminated by-"

There was a sharp, very polite cough, a clearing of the throat almost. And as both men turned and caught sight of Mycroft sitting ramrod straight in their living room, John's trousers chose that moment to fall down.

"I am sorry to interrupt gentlemen," Mycroft said in a tone that indicated he felt the exact opposite. "I wonder if I could have a word before you carry on…doing…" he trailed off, waving his hand abstractly.

"Ah there was, um," John floundered around looking for a plausible alternative explanation. "Poison-" he gave up. "Never mind." He sheepishly pulled up his pants and started rebuttoning his shirt.

"What is it Mycroft? I'm busy," snapped Sherlock. He refused to adjust his clothing.

"I can see. Wondered how long it would take you."

"None of your business."

"Sherlock, it has been my business since you came moping around my office bemoaning the fact that Dr Watson was ignoring you. I believe I gave you plenty of sage advice."

"You asked Mycroft for relationship advice?" John asked. "About us?"

"You weren't speaking to me. I missed you," said Sherlock shortly. "And only if you call a lecture about my selfish, ungrateful approach to life, _advice_."

"I merely told Sherlock to accept that you had moved on, and as expected he did the complete opposite and now look where you are. A success I'd say."

John winced. "Can we not talk about me and Sherlock please? Why are you here Mycroft?"

"To check on my little brother, who I see has markedly improved since I last saw him, and also to get you to have a look at this –" He flicked a plain envelope onto the coffee table. "See what you can do. Terribly sensitive." He stood, brushed a speck of lint off his shirt and collected his umbrella. He walked towards them. "I'll leave you to…._it." _He said with a supercilious smirk as he let himself out.

John looked at Sherlock. "Ah. Bit of a passion killer."

"Like a bucket of cold water. Moriarty didn't call him the iceman for nothing."

John could see he was looking over at the envelope his brother had left.

"Go on then, have a look at it."

Sherlock gave him a grateful smile and strode over to retrieve the envelope.

"I'll put some tea on then will I?" he called, going into the kitchen.

Sherlock was busy examining the contents of the envelope. "No, no, won't be long –" he paused.

John knew what that pause meant. Sherlock was interested in whatever case Mycroft had given him. Which meant deferring whatever activities they had just been about to do. John went into the kitchen anyway and put the kettle on, biting down his frustration and trying not to be disappointed. Cases were good. Cases were interesting and exciting and potentially dangerous.

So was sex with Sherlock.

He heard Sherlock walk into the kitchen.

"Interesting case?" he asked lightly.

"Mm nothing that can't wait," said Sherlock, coming up behind John and wrapping his arms around him.

John put down the kettle of boiling water.

"You're naked," he said carefully.

Sherlock placed a kiss on his neck. "Very observant."

"Case can wait then?"

"Case can wait."

John shut his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of Sherlock nuzzling his neck, of Sherlock's body pressed flush against his. What was it about this man that made him _want_ so very badly? His eyes flew open with a start as a horrible thought occurred to him. "Should we take this to the bedroom? Mycroft might have rebugged the flat."

Sherlock groaned and pulled away. "Annoyingly, yes. As much as it's his own fault if he sees, I don't particularly want the first time you bugger me on the kitchen table broadcast to the British Government."

"Would put me off," John agreed, then rewound that. "Uh, me bugger you?"

"Problem?"

John turned towards Sherlock, naked Sherlock, who was looking at him with that adorable confused expression that John found endearing because it wasn't often Sherlock was confused.

"No, no, I just thought, you know, that you would want to be…the top," he said, searching for the correct parlance.

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought we'd take turns."

John took this on board and nodded once. "Yes. Turns. Bedroom?" he asked.

"Bedroom," agreed Sherlock and he spun around and led the way.

John stood for a minute, watching with appreciation as he walked away, then pulled his shirt over his head, and followed after him, shedding clothes.

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **hort one this time. I've written the end, it's just the middle bit I'm working on. More soon I hope. Thanks for reviews, favourites and alerts so far!

**Part 2**

Sherlock couldn't quite remember when he had ever felt this good before in his life. His skin felt as if was merging with John's, as if the atoms of the molecules that made him were fusing with the atoms that made John. He felt as if he could lie here forever, John on top of him, John's head on his chest, his legs wrapped around John's waist, holding him close. John tucked his arms under Sherlock's shoulders with a satisfied sigh. Lazily Sherlock drew a Bach concerto on John's back with his fingers.

And Sherlock thought of some words that might express what he was feeling but they were too fraught, too laden with meaning and they caught in his throat and made his heart pound, suddenly, shockingly. He lay very still for a moment, stunned by the enormity of the emotion that had flooded through him as if those little words had been a key. He needed to think, to clear his mind. He stared at the ceiling, shaking fingers still on John's back.

Mistake. This may have been a mistake.

* * *

When John woke up he was alone. He vaguely recalled moving off Sherlock and passing out after what would have to be classified as the best shag he'd had in at least five years. The comforting sex he'd shared with Mary had been nice, a relief from his loneliness and grief, but it was nothing compared to this raw, burning, _daring_ act he'd committed with Sherlock. He retrieved his watch from the floor beside the bed and checked the time. Three o'clock. Sherlock was probably downstairs working on Mycroft's case. John didn't really want to move, his muscles felt like liquid and the post sex hormones were still humming through his veins. He rolled over and groaned as his muscles sank into a new position. He wished Sherlock was back in bed. He always liked a good cuddle after sex, that intimate time when secrets were shared with soft laughter and talk about nonsense.

He wondered what Sherlock felt about all…this. He knew, physically, Sherlock was enjoying it. He knew Sherlock cared for him, considered him his best and only friend and that Sherlock had missed him terribly when they'd been apart. Sherlock never did anything he didn't want to do. Why he wanted to do it was the question. How much was this about Sherlock just doing what he thought John wanted, adding just another dimension to their friendship, _playing a part_? Was it just a physical need, a release? Did he…did he feel anything remotely romantic? Not that John needed that really, Sherlock was being affectionate in his own way, was turning John's brain to mush with amazing sex, that was enough. It didn't need to be classified. They were friends, they were together. This was whatever it was. John wasn't even sure why he was wondering. All the same, he wished Sherlock was in bed.

With a sigh he got up and pulled on his dressing gown. He wandered down into the living room and found Sherlock, fully dressed in his usual suit, perched on the arm chair, his fingers steepled together in front of him, deep in thought.

"Hey," John said softly, smiling fondly. "All right?" After all…they'd just...explored new territory.

Sherlock shot him a cool look that said be quiet. John suddenly felt a little underdressed. He needed a shower and he was feeling a bit too uncertain about the new dynamics of his friendship to deal with a coldly logical Sherlock who had forgotten about being fucked into the mattress and was now focusing on a case. Nope, now was not the time for emotional relationship discussions.

"Any progress?" John asked.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then suddenly sprang from his perch. "John, get dressed, there's going to be an assassination."

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

Their first stop was the French Embassy in Knightsbridge.

"Somebody is going to be assassinated," Sherlock explained on the taxi ride there. "The question is, who, where and when."

"Right and we know this because?" John asked.

"Because the Ambassador's mistress was murdered in the Embassy and despite what the French Ambassador believes, she was not the target. All the evidence indicates that she had disturbed an intruder; nothing was stolen, the murder was cleanly and expertly done, so not a crime of passion, and from the murderer's movements it's safe to deduce they were attempting reconnaissance. Of course the Ambassador believes it to be a simple murder and is afraid it's his wife, who happens to be the French President's sister, that's why normal law enforcement and intelligence agencies haven't been contacted."

"And where Mycroft comes in."

"The intrigues of power John. Now to find out who the real target is."

John smiled at Sherlock's animation. He was feeling the building hum of excitement as well. He'd missed this. There was nothing normal or ordinary about being with Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at him just at that moment but instead of smiling in return, John was surprised to see him narrow his eyes and deliberately turn away to look out the window, adjusting his coat a little. Odd.

John frowned and reached across to rest his hand against Sherlock's leg. Sherlock shifted.

Ok.

John sat back in his seat. Ok. Sherlock was on a case. Obviously he didn't want any distractions. Fine, John could deal with that.

* * *

The Secretary-General was expecting them and they were ushered into a side office.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, so good of you to come." The Secretary-General had impeccable English, with just enough French accent to say, of course I speak perfect English _because_ I am French. "This is a very sensitive matter, our mutual….acquaintance…has assured me you will be utterly discrete."

Sherlock waved this away. "I need a list of the Embassy's itinerary for the next week. The Ambassador's wife didn't do it, the mistress disturbed an assassin."

It hadn't taken Sherlock long to figure out the 'who'. A controversial left wing politician was visiting, thoroughly hated by the extreme right. He would be surrounded by bodyguards but no one would expect an attack from within the Embassy itself.

The where (the Embassy) and when (during the politician's visit, probably the first evening there) were also obvious. The only puzzle confronting Sherlock was the identity of the assassin. He could easily hand the case over to Mycroft at this point and let the various operatives do the leg work but he knew he'd be cut out of the loop entirely and he knew if he had a little more time he could stop the assassin before the politician even set foot in England.

He forced away a distracting thought that flitted into the main stage of his mind. Somehow his neural pathways had connected 'assassin' with 'mistress' and 'mistress' with 'sex' and 'sex' with John. And 'sex with John' had a whole brain map of its own, complete with connections to subconscious physical responses. Images of rumpled sheets, sweaty skin, blonde-grey hair and a boyish grin that made Sherlock want to break.

With a frown he looked at the cause of this disruption. John, standing there with his army jumper, looking irritatingly adorable. He reacted to Sherlock's annoyed gaze with a confused, slightly hurt expression, which was even more annoying because Sherlock didn't want to want to sweep over to his friend and kiss it all away. He didn't want to feel this way, this ache in his heart that threatened to overwhelm him. This desperate wanting and need and…feeling.

* * *

John watched as Sherlock examined the crimes scene, looking for any clues that Mycroft's photographs hadn't provided. He followed Sherlock down to walk around the Embassy. Then across the road to the Kuwaiti Embassy. The entire time Sherlock barely said two words to him. He was muttering but only to himself, as if John wasn't even there. John pressed his lips together, trying not to take offence. Sherlock had grown used to working alone, of course things wouldn't be the same – no inappropriate jokes on the side, no amused glances. But he hadn't been like this yesterday, at Lestrade's crime scene. Mind you they'd only been there about five minutes before Sherlock had solved it, so maybe that didn't count as an example. All the same, John missed the way things had been…before. Of course, before, he hadn't got to lie next to Sherlock naked and listen to him breath.

And that was the other thing, when he did make eye contact, Sherlock had a pissed off expression, as if John was bothering him just by existing. He didn't expect Sherlock to be whispering sweet nothings or skipping along holding his hand, but he thought…well…maybe an occasional saucy wink, a heated glance? John was trying not to be paranoid, because not only was this new ground for both of them but Sherlock had been away for three years. There were probably just things they both needed to get used to again.

They went through Albert Gate into Hyde Park. Being in the park reminded John of the second time they'd kissed, the first time he'd meant it. He cast a glance at Sherlock, a smile on his lips but Sherlock was still off in his emotionless robot place. John sighed and looked away. Hard to believe only a few hours before he'd had Sherlock's legs wrapped around him and was kissing the sweat from his forehead.

Sherlock let out a loud exasperated sigh. John looked at him.

"Stop it John."

"Stop what?"

"You're thinking about sex."

John felt his cheeks burn. "Sorry? How – I mean you don't know that."

Sherlock gave him a look that indicated John had just said something especially stupid.

"If you can't keep your mind on the job maybe you should go home."

"Sherlock – I'm not doing anything." John didn't think Sherlock was being fair at all.

"You're distracting me." Sherlock gave him what could only be classed as a filthy look, but not in a good way. John was a little taken aback, that level of hostility was usually reserved for the likes of Anderson.

"Fine then, have fun here by yourself." Obviously he'd breathed the wrong way and was not needed. "I'll…just-" He turned to walk out of the park and catch the tube home.

Sherlock was busy looking up at the roof of the French Embassy and didn't bother replying.

John stopped, frowned, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, then decided, fuck it and said it anyway.

"No," he said, turning around. "No, you don't get to tell me to piss off home."

Sherlock looked up, blinking. "I don't believe I said-"

John glared at him. "In case you don't remember, _you_ asked _me_ to run around on cases with you. You harassed me so much that I left my girlfriend for you. You don't get to change your mind. You're stuck with me."

John couldn't read Sherlock's expression; his brows drew together and he breathed in sharply. Then he waved his hand. "Fine. Try not to bother me." He frowned, returning to stare at the French Embassy through the park gates. "There is no way the intruder could have accessed the building from the outside-"

John took a deep breath. They just needed to get used to this new situation. That was all. Also, he realised with a low gurgle from his midsection, he was hungry. He hadn't eaten all day apart from a bit of toast that morning and a jam bun he'd snagged at Lestrade's crime scene. "Look, I'm going to go grab something to eat, leave you to think in peace. Ok?"

Sherlock didn't even glance at him. He gazed at the scene in front of him, dark brows drawn above steepled fingers. "Yes-" He stopped, a look of inspiration coming over him. "Of course!" he yelled. He grabbed John by the shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. "That's it! John, kitchen."

And that was it. It was the new sous chef in the Embassy kitchen. The one place where the staff weren't vetted and there was a high turn over of personnel.

The sous chef wasn't so pleased to have his secret identity discovered and the kitchen was an unfortunate place to take on an assassin.

"John!" yelled Sherlock as the assassin raised a knife.

John ducked just in time as a knife thudded into the wall just behind where his head had been. By which time Sherlock had tackled the man and thrown him to the ground. John raced over and between the two of them and the dish hand they were able to subdue him.

John sat on the sous chef, keeping him in place. He grinned at Sherlock. Another mystery solved, case complete. And Sherlock had kissed him. All was right with the world.

Sherlock sat back on his heels. "You might have been killed," he said, his voice harsh, face pale and angry. "I told you to go home." John stared at him in surprise.

"_You_ might have been killed. What would you have done if I hadn't been there to distract him?" he said. He blinked, unsure of where Sherlock's anger had come from. He didn't understand, they'd always got themselves into danger, Sherlock had never cared before, they'd just laughed after everything turned out ok in the end. Laughed and shared a look that John had never really understood but it had always made him hum and feel like…well like he did now actually, a bit turned on. He'd been hoping that when they got home they'd be able to do something with the adrenalin buzz.

"What, with a knife in your head? Do try to think John-" Sherlock snorted in disgust. He shook his head. "Stupid," he muttered to himself and John wasn't sure who he was talking about.

Mycroft's team chose that moment to arrive and take charge of the assassin.

"Not very discrete Sherlock," Mycroft chided.

Sherlock just glared at him and stormed off. John glanced at Mycroft and the Secretary-General apologetically and followed after him.

Sherlock stopped outside the Embassy, waiting for a cab. He paced on the spot.

"Sherlock," said John. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong," Sherlock snapped. He hailed an approaching cab.

It had been a crazy twenty-four hours, John decided. Sex, a case, sex again, another case. Sherlock probably just needed to process everything. Still a follow up on the sex would be nice. Or at the very least a bit of snuggling.

"Want to get some dinner?" John asked, offering an olive branch. Sherlock was always hungry after wrapping up a case and _he _was starving. They could have a nice meal, unwind, maybe then Sherlock would be in a better mood.

"No."

"Oh. Some take away then?" John asked, trying not to be hurt. It's just Sherlock. Big day. Sherlock. Emotionally retarded, remember?

"Do what you want, I'm going home." The taxi pulled up.

John knew he should be used to this, Sherlock being insufferable, but that was before, well, before they started shagging. Maybe in Sherlock's world that didn't make a difference but in John's universe you didn't shag someone and then give them the cold shoulder immediately after, unless you never wanted to see them again.

"Fine, have a sulk. I'll see you at home," said John and walked off, annoyed and a little hurt.

* * *

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently on the door handle all the way home. He'd felt this feeling before and he did not like it. Before in Baskerville. Before when Moriarty had covered John in Semtex. Before when it looked like Moriarty was going to burn his heart out after all. Before when he came back and John wasn't there anymore. He knew he shouldn't be afraid over anything that had happened tonight, any danger had long since passed and it was mediocre danger at best. But he kept picturing that knife flying towards John and the thought 'what if' and all its hideous possibilities see-sawed through his head. And the ache in his chest, in his breast, where his heart belonged, became unbearable. He couldn't…he couldn't keep on feeling this. But how could he not keep feeling this, when the very thought of something happening to John made him feel physically ill? How was he supposed to function? He couldn't think without John appearing from his subconscious, burning his nerve endings, setting him on fire. Wanting. Needing. He couldn't concentrate without worrying about John, all the thousands of risks and dangers he would be putting John into if he allowed this to continue. He couldn't bear it.

He didn't want to feel like this anymore.

**tbc  
**

**AN:** well I got a bit stuck on this bit but things are flowing along again (nicely I hope). Have decided after reading some M rated fics that this is not M rated, but if you beg to differ please let me know. Thanks for all the reviews, great to hear what people think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

When John got home three quarters of an hour later, Sherlock was sawing angrily on his violin. Hopes of Sherlock having gotten over whatever had crawled up his arse were dashed when he heard the ungodly squall from the street.

"I'm back. Got a kebab for you if you want?" he called from the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't even look up, and in fact turned away, towards the window, not pausing his violin assault.

Oh please, grow up, thought John. He shook his head, threw Sherlock's kebab in the fridge and grabbed his laptop. "I'm going to bed," he said.

Sherlock played louder.

The thing was, this was perfectly normal behaviour, for Sherlock. John knew that. He just…maybe he was expecting too much.

"Fine. Goodnight then," he said and went off to bed, alone. He worked on his laptop for a bit and eventually the strangled cat sound coming from Sherlock's violin died down into something long and slow and melancholy. Sulking, John thought. Well he hadn't done anything wrong. He wasn't going to apologise or go crawling to make up. He shut down his laptop, turned out the bedside light, and tossed around in bed, trying to get comfortable. Not how he imagined tonight turning out. He could still smell Sherlock on the pillow next to him. Sherlock should have been on the pillow next to him.

Suddenly he realised that the violin had stopped. Finally. Then he heard a creak on the stairs. He waited, heart beating a little faster, wondering if Sherlock was going to come and join him after all. There was a long pause, then another creak, further down and a minute or two later he heard the violin start up again.

John sighed, turned over and tried to get to sleep.

John woke late the next morning, realised it was Sunday and rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. He'd been having a nice dream for once. He heard Sherlock rattling around downstairs and an uncomfortable feeling formed in the pit of his stomach as he remembered that things were a bit off between the two of them. He got up, had a long shower, delaying the inevitable, then pulled on some clothes and went downstairs.

Sherlock was at the kitchen table messing about with some human body parts.

"Morning," said John as cheerily as he could manage.

Sherlock's jaw twitched but he didn't reply.

"Silent treatment is it?" John said chirpily as he fixed himself some tea and toast. He knew enough about relationships to know that if he wasn't being spoken to, it was probably something he had apparently done. "Anything you want to yell at me about?"

Sherlock didn't look up. "Forgive me if I don't indulge in histrionics, John."

"Fine, right. Because you're just the soul of reasonableness." John grabbed the newspaper and went to sit on the couch. Sherlock was being a complete wanker. He checked his phone. There were a couple of unanswered texts. One from Harry, one from Mary. He replied to Harry's with a 'fine, u?' and then flipped to Mary's, guilt settling uncomfortably on top of his current discomfort over Sherlock. Sunday. Shit. Lunch. He'd promised last week that he'd meet up with her for lunch today. He really couldn't cancel, that would be too shitty after the way he'd messed her around. He looked at the time, eleven, ok. He quickly replied to let her know he could still make it, gulped down his tea and finished his toast.

"Anything you need me for today?" he asked Sherlock, in case there was a case or something, but he wasn't holding out hope.

"No, why would I need you?" said Sherlock shortly.

John swallowed. Ignore. Ignore. It's just Sherlock being an arse. "Right, good, I'm going out then. I'm meeting Mary for lunch."

"Mary?" Sherlock paused at his microscope.

"Yes. You don't mind?" He knew it was immature, but there was a moment of hope that maybe Sherlock would be jealous, would want him to stay.

"Why would I mind if you see Mary?" Sherlock said coolly and returned to his pickled eyeballs. "She might be silly enough to take you back."

John felt like he'd been roundhouse kicked. He stared at Sherlock for a moment. No, the words and their meaning were very clear. He swallowed. "I hope so, because God knows you're being a complete dick."

And he grabbed his coat and got the hell out of there before he said something that made him look completely pathetic.

* * *

Sherlock slowly put down the microscope slide. This…did not feel…better. John was going to see Mary. And what did that mean? John just being nice? John changing his mind? He hadn't changed into date clothes but then he'd been obviously angry…hurt? Was John going to return to her?

Sherlock abandoned his work and strode to the window, hoping to see a glimpse of John, to read something from his departing back, but he was long gone. It would be better for John, safer, if he went back to Mary, forgot about working with Sherlock. Then Sherlock could stop worrying about him, stop being afraid. If he went back to Mary maybe Sherlock could stop feeling so much for him. Allow himself to crush down this bright painful feeling that was overwhelming him. He could go back to being alone, rational, emotionless.

Was that what he wanted?

Yes.

No.

John might leave him.

A hideous curling feeling bloomed in his gut making him feel short of breath, make his chest feel tight. It made him lean against the wall for support. He'd been afraid to lose John last night but this was worse. Was this the choice now? Between the overwhelming emotion of love or this sickening pain of loss? It was John's fault. All of it. Had he succeeded in driving John away?

He picked up his phone and toyed with it, trying to think of what to say, to bring John back, to not bring him back.

He paced.

John's fault.

Good riddance.

Too distracting.

He sat down at the table again, went to his Mind Palace, shut John up in a room and turned to his experiment, focusing. Focused.

* * *

John really didn't want to meet with Mary today of all days, not with things so out of kilter with Sherlock. Not when he was feeling so angry and hurt. He owed her however so he resisted the impulse to not show up and instead greeted her with a hug and kiss on the cheek.

She looked good. As pretty as he remembered. She smiled gently at him. "I've missed you," she said.

**tbc**

**AN:** One more chapter to go! Have to decide how badly John is taking this...


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

By three pm Sherlock couldn't ignore the fact that he'd started checking the clock. John should have finished lunch by now. Why wasn't he home?

_3.59pm Where are you? _

Send.

No reply.

By four pm Sherlock was beginning to remember what it had been like without John.

_4.30pm We're out of milk._

Send.

No reply.

_4.38 pm I can't find the Bunsen burner._

Send.

No reply.

_4.47 pm Why aren't you home yet?_

Send.

No reply.

By five pm Sherlock had curled up on the couch for a bit, face buried in John's jumper.

By six pm Sherlock had decided he didn't need John at all and John could go fuck himself or Mary or whoever he bloody well pleased because Sherlock didn't give a flying fuck.

By seven pm Sherlock had realised he'd made a terrible, terrible miscalculation. He shouldn't have driven John away. He needed John. He needed him to help on his cases. He needed him at Baker Street. He needed him in his bed. He couldn't be without John.

_7.02pm Sorry._

Send.

_7.05pm I said sorry. Come home now._

Send.

_7.13pm I need you._

Send.

No reply. No reply. No reply.

By eight pm Sherlock was lying face down on John's bed having epiphanies. John had lost Sherlock once but still came back to him and took the risk of loving him. So very brave. And what had he done? Thrown it back in his face. Tried to drive him away. Idiot. Idiot. John would never come back now. Never.

John, who had always tried to protect him, had killed for him, had offered to die for him. John who loved him yet could cope with him risking his life. Had coped with him dying. Maybe he could do the same. It would be worth it, to have John with him, beside him, for as long as he could.

It was too late. Too late.

If John came back he would tell him this. All of this.

_8.04pm You are brave and wonderful._

Send.

No reply.

By nine pm John still hadn't returned.

What if something had happened to John?

What if he'd been kidnapped or murdered?

What if he'd gone back to Mary's?

Where was John?

It was all Sherlock's fault. All his fault.

He couldn't stand this.

John had ruined him. Ruined him with his love and affection and sweet face and stupid grin and brave heart and ugly jumpers.

_9.09pm Please come home._

Send.

No reply.

By ten pm Sherlock sent his tenth text.

_Text if you're not dead._

A long ten minutes later finally Sherlock received a reply. His fingers scrambled for the phone, fumbled at the buttons.

_Not dead. Just need some time alone. Thinking. Talk when I get back._

This…this was not helpful. Think about what? John shouldn't be allowed to do thinking on his own, he'd come to wrong conclusions completely. Conclusions like he didn't want to have sex with Sherlock any more, or that he'd like to get back together with that Mary woman. No. Bad.

_Stop that and come home. _Sherlock hit send.

Sherlock waited. Waited for an ample time for a text to be composed and sent. Then waited an ample time for John to get into a taxi and come straight back to Baker Street. These time frames came and went.

_Well?_ Send.

The reply came quickly. _When I'm ready! Don't text me again._

With a follow up soon after: _Unless you're in danger or something._

**tbc**

**AN:** Ok, I lied, this is not the last chapter. I'm still faffing around with the ending but thought I'd post this part so you don't have to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

John had retired to a nearby pub after he bid Mary goodbye that afternoon. She'd guessed that things weren't great with Sherlock but John didn't feel right unburdening himself to her; that would be asking too much. He let her have the satisfaction of thinking he had made a mistake in leaving her. Instead they just chatted, like normal people who were trying to pretend one of them hadn't only recently broken the other one's heart and run off with his best friend back from the dead. Chatting with Mary about normal, everyday things, about normal everyday people had only confirmed that the life he'd tried to build with her had been a fabrication. And even if he had entertained the thought of going back to Mary he wouldn't approach her now, not on the rebound from Sherlock. And that was assuming she'd even have him back, John knew he didn't deserve it. So when she hesitated about saying goodbye, he gave her a peck on the cheek, thanked her for seeing him and told her he had to go.

He walked around for a bit, going over and over the last conversation he'd had with Sherlock. Then walked into a random pub and ordered a pint, or several.

He'd spent the better part of the afternoon and evening going around in circles in his mind and trying to numb the pain. Until Sherlock had told him to go back to Mary, he'd been willing to believe that he had just been in a bad mood. But that one sentence had made everything clear, washed away all the careful excuses he'd pulled together. The truth was Sherlock didn't want John after all.

It had been the sex, he decided. Something had gone wrong straight after that. Had it been bad? Had Sherlock been hurt? Had he hated it? John felt sick. It had seemed so right, felt so damn good and Sherlock had been enthusiastic, had held him afterwards, stroking his back as he fell into a blissful sleep. So what had gone wrong?

Losing Sherlock again was the one thing John had been afraid of when Sherlock returned but he'd not only gone back to him at Baker Street but tumbled into bed with him, so happy, so pleased to be with him again. John had been seduced by the thought of being with him, having him completely, being his completely. And now Sherlock had had him, he was done with him. All the things that had been said, all the things that had been whispered, _shown_ - all lies. He should have known. Sherlock was good at manipulating people, and that's all it had been. John shut his eyes as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. He'd been so lonely, so broken when he thought Sherlock had died. It felt like that again all over.

He would have to try to figure out his next course of action. Move back into a bedsit like when Sherlock had first…left, he supposed. The idea made him feel weak and he swallowed hard and swore at himself. He'd been the stupid bloody idiot who had gotten himself into this mess. He would have to get himself out of it. Maybe he should re-enlist, he might pass the medical now, his leg was better if he wasn't feeling distressed by the meaningless of existence, his shoulder only ached on miserable days. He'd stayed in London after Sherlock's death because he couldn't bear to be away from the things that kept the memories alive, but now, if Sherlock didn't want him he couldn't stay.

And then Sherlock started texting him. He was too angry to reply to the imperious demands for information but something about them lit a treacherous spark of hope.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Sherlock really wanted to end things. If the only lie had been that he didn't care if John went back to Mary. And as Sherlock's texts sounded increasingly desperate, John wondered if maybe his friend had just been having a Sherlock-sized anxiety attack about suddenly being a relationship. After all, this was his first everything, the impossible man had never even had sex before, let alone a romantic relationship as far as John knew, unless you counted that weird dominance thing with Irene Adler. John had had a hard enough time coming to grips with the change from confirmed heterosexuality to lusting after his male flatmate. Now that he thought about it, it must have been just as odd to go from not caring about sex at all to the lust fuelled activities of the last few days. And anyone who knew Sherlock would know that he wasn't really acting out of the ordinary. Maybe it was John who had the problem, expecting normal boyfriend behaviour from the brilliant, erratic man.

And maybe that _was_ the problem. Maybe it wasn't possible to be in a relationship with Sherlock.

And maybe adding sex into the mix was too much. Could he go back to how things were before? Just friends? Loving him only platonically? A bitter, sick feeling twisted inside him at the thought. Maybe, if that's all he could have. Maybe it would be better than not having Sherlock in his life at all.

John needed to know, one way or the other.

He'd moved out before, he'd moved on before. He could do that again.

God, he didn't want to do that again. Damn it, he didn't want to have to do that again. Really, really, didn't want to get over Sherlock again.

John scanned the list of texts Sherlock had sent that evening. Some of the later ones made his heart skip traitorously. He didn't want to let himself believe them. John hadn't replied to any of them, except for the last lot, starting with '_Text if you're not dead', _because he wouldn't have liked to be the one at home worrying about that.

He sighed and picked up his jacket and phone. He had to go home and have it out with Sherlock.

The phone rang as he was manoeuvring past the other patrons towards the door of the pub. John frowned as he pressed the answer button, it was an unlisted number.

"Dr Watson, Mycroft Holmes. Dr Watson, I'd appreciate it if you could make your way back to Baker Street at your earliest convenience."

"Why?"

"Sherlock's been behaving erratically and now he's found…ah…well let's just say I can't keep an eye on him at the moment. I'm a little…concerned."

John didn't bother saying anything else before hanging up and walking quickly out of the pub. The words danger night hadn't been said but they hammered in his mind. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, what have you done?

**tbc**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **Ok, here it is, final chapter! Thanks for reading along :)

**Part 7**

Mrs Hudson waylaid him on the way in the door at 221B Baker Street.

"Oh John, I'm so glad you're back! The noises upstairs – do be careful, I think it's only Sherlock but you can't be too sure…"

"It's all right Mrs Hudson, he's just in a mood." Oh God, and now he's worrying Mrs Hudson, it must be bad.

"I'm so glad you've moved back in John, having the two of you here, it's like old times."

John patted the hand she had on his arm fondly, trying to look unconcerned. "I'm glad to be back too, Mrs Hudson, now don't worry, I'll go sort out Sherlock." With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and hoping it was just Sherlock having a temper tantrum, he went upstairs.

The flat was a shambles, more so than usual, it looked like plates had been smashed, papers thrown on the floor, all the books had been pulled off the bookshelf. A crushed surveillance device lay on the kitchen table next to a hammer. John's heart pounded. He looked up and saw Sherlock standing in the darkened kitchen, watching him.

"Sherlock? You ok?"

Sherlock, brows drawn together, closed the distance between them in two long strides. He cupped John's face in both his strong hands and crushed their mouths together. John was pushed back against the door, and he gripped Sherlock's shirt, trying to remember that he was angry, hanging on for the ride.

"You did this to me," Sherlock hissed between kisses, deep voice, low and dark. "All these distracting feelings, all this dopamine and oxytocin clouding my brain, making me want more of _you_."

John breathed sharply as Sherlock thrust his hips against him, pressing their bodies flush together. Hard. Sherlock was hard. He reclaimed John's mouth, tongue demanding entrance, hands still holding his face close. John felt his earlier irritation and upset, his resolve to have a discussion turn to water, this dark, possessive Sherlock feeding into his danger-seeking nature, thrilling, delicious. Sexy. Oh fuck, sexy.

Sherlock's hands moved, grabbing John to him in an agitated motion, his mouth burnt a path down John's jaw, to his throat. "…afraid that I'll lose you, it's too much," angry murmurs against his throat. "I tried to stop it, tried to go back to how things were when I only _cared _but what's worse than being in love with you is the thought of losing you."

And John heard the despair, the bewilderment underlying the words he'd been hoping to hear. And he finally knew. He understood. He believed. "You idiot," he said burying his face in Sherlock's hair, pulling him closer. "You great idiot."

"Don't. Leave. Me," Sherlock bit out, and he dragged his lips up John's throat, kissing John's face. Hips ground hard against John. Hand fisted in John's coat, other hand on his waist, pulling him flush. "You're mine, John, mine."

John's hands tangled in Sherlock's hair, dragging him back into a kiss. Telling him in actions what he wanted him to know. That he was his and he wouldn't leave him and it was ok.

Sherlock responded and they stood there for a long moment, kissing, tasting, bodies grinding against each other, hands holding on tight. John felt Sherlock reach between them, fumbling at John's belt, cupping his obvious hard on for a moment as he pressed in hard against John's hip. John groaned against Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock drew away, kissing a path along John's jaw. His hand fumbled at John's zip, and then closed around his hardening length. John clutched Sherlock to him, as his hips thrust forward involuntarily. Yes. This. All of this. He was Sherlock's and Sherlock was his.

"Hope you got all of Mycroft's bugs," John managed to gasp out. "I want you to fuck me right here, this minute."

Sherlock sucked hard on the skin of John's neck. "Yes," he hissed and then pulled John down with him to the floor.

* * *

Sherlock shut his eyes, just felt. Hard, harder, not too hard, hold back, careful. He heard bitten out curses, demands for more. Letting go. Tumbling, falling, and John holding him, holding onto him, falling together now. And John was moaning his name, over and over like an unholy mantra. And the world blurred and Sherlock just felt. More. Too much. Nearly.

"Look at me please, Sherlock, please."

And Sherlock opened his eyes and looked into John's dark blue ones. "John…"

And then those words that had been choking him since the morning before came falling out. Two words, not even three.

"Love you…" And then all he could say was John, over and over.

* * *

Tangled. They were completely tangled. John's trousers were hooked around his feet and Sherlock's legs were twined around and between his. Somehow Sherlock's shirt had become half wrapped around John. John winced a little as he shifted.

"Floor's hard," he said.

"Mmm," said Sherlock stretched on top of him. "You're soft though."

"Hmmmph," said John. "You're heavy, get off."

Sherlock groaned in complaint. He disengaged his legs from John's and rolled over. John got to his feet, pulled up his trousers, then held his hand out Sherlock and helped him up too.

He staggered over to the couch and collapsed. He ached in a good way. Sherlock fell down beside him, shirt still unbuttoned but pants back on.

"Feeling better?" John asked.

Sherlock shot him a look then cracked a smile. "I may have over-reacted slightly."

"A little, yes. You know you could just talk to me."

Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder. "Don't go back to Mary," he said.

John frowned. "Don't be an idiot. Why– " He stopped, frustrated. "Don't you know? I was yours the first day we met. I've always been yours."

Sherlock twined his fingers with John's and didn't say anything.

John sighed and leant his head on Sherlock's. "Mary – I like Mary, a lot," he continued softly. "And if you hadn't come waltzing back into my life with your stupid coat, and your stupid face and your stupid bloody cases, I probably would have ended up married to her, but she's not you and here you are, and I'm so fucking glad. I know what you're feeling. It scares the shit out of me to think I might lose you again someday but I can't not be with you."

Sherlock turned his head and John copied the motion, he saw Sherlock looking at him with an expression he rarely saw; hopeful, vulnerable. John leant his forehead against Sherlock's, their noses touched and they slid into a kiss. Gentle.

"I love you too, by the way," said John after a long moment.

"Oh. Good."

"I don't want to have to get over you again," John added. "Don't make me."

"I won't."

They were both silent for a moment, Sherlock was studying their fingers. "I was afraid."

John rested his forehead against Sherlock's again. "I know."

Sherlock looked up, meeting his eyes. "Forgive me."

John smiled softly. "I do."

Sherlock smiled back, a little ruefully. "I haven't quite worked this all out yet."

"You and me both," said John. He paused, pulling back a little. Considering his next words. "I just need to know you want me here, ok?"

Sherlock leaned his head back on the couch, turning his head towards John. "I want you here, I want you at my side and I want you…under me on the kitchen floor."

John snickered. "Fair enough. Can do that."

"Do you want me John?"

"Yes," he said. It didn't seem enough, so he added. "Yes I do."

"God, that just sounded like a marriage proposal," Sherlock said, his voice vibrant again.

"Oh fuck, don't. We've only just got this sorted." John shot a look at Sherlock and they both grinned.

"Bed?"

"Bed."

**The end.**


End file.
